The 7 visitors
by Aussieflower
Summary: Sherlock's death left and impact on a lot of people. Some knew he was dead, some didn't. But he was never alone and his grave never remained unvisited. 7 people visited his grave. I am an Irene/Sherlock shipper, so no John/Sherlock slash from me.  enjoy x


**Hello guys!**

**So after watching the Reichenbach falls, I just had to put all other things on hold and write this short piece. I just have to say that I coompletely LOVED the episode, I think it was probably the best to date. I loved the relationship between Sherlock and all the other characters, although there were several of them (Mycroft, Sally Donovan and even Lestrade, just to give a few examples) that I really wanted to punch in the end. The episode made me cry like crazy in the last few minutes, but I was so incredibly RELIEVED when Sherlock survived. I don't know or care how he did it, but he is alive! Thank you thank you thank you! I can't wait for series three!**

**Anyway here you go and enjoy :)**

**The 7 visitors**

John visited the most.

Every week he would make his way along the little lane in the graveyard, breathe in the sense of pine trees and listen to the birds chirping.

Every week he would stop in front of the cold slab of stone and just stare at it, sometimes for minutes on end, not saying a word.

Simply thinking.

Wondering.

_Why_?

Why did Sherlock have to do this? Why did he have to be dead?

John missed him.

He missed the excitement, the adventure, the danger, the brilliance of his life with Sherlock.

His life was so dull now.

He kept having to remind himself that he had had a life _before_ Sherlock, a perfectly ordinary and good life, and one he wouldn't have complained about. He had managed without the constant rush of danger, without the countless murder and puzzles.

Nothing ever happened to him anymore.

Sometimes John would bring flowers, but those occasions were very rare. He knew that Sherlock would view flowers on his grave as stupid or inconvenient.

"What's the point?" he would have asked. "What's the point if they just lie there and rot, all for a dead person who can't even see them or care about them?"

Besides, flowers showed _sentiment_. Sherlock hated sentiment.

Sometimes John would talk to Sherlock, pretending he was sitting next to him, and imagining his replies. He supposed he looked strange, sitting next to a grave and recounting all of the things he had done on the weekend, how Harry was slowly starting to come off the alcohol, how he had met a nice woman called Mary, how Molly had gotten engaged, and how Lestrade had finally left his wife.

Sometimes he would yell, scream, shout and cry, begging Sherlock to be there, not to be dead, only to scream more when no miracle came.

He left the grave depressed and exhausted.

He always told Sherlock he missed him.

In the end, he could have done without all of the excitement and without all the case solving. All he needed was Sherlock.

Sherlock was like no other person he had ever met before.

Rude, yes. Exceptionally rude, and cold and cynical. But he was also the most amazing, human and caring person John had ever met.

There was no one like Sherlock.

There never would be.

.

.

.

Mrs Hudson visited too sometimes.

She had loved Sherlock; he had been like a son to her.

He might have been rude at times, and cold, and he had shot her _wall_ for god's sake, but she still loved him like no other.

She remembered the time he had nearly killed a man because he had hurt her, the time he had saved her from her abusive husband and the time he simply sat with her and talked

221B just wasn't the same without him.

John had moved out, at least temporarily, but still visited her sometimes.

But other than that she was alone.

No one played the violin anymore, no one carried up body parts to store in his fridge and no one shot the wall anymore.

She had packed up all of Sherlock's things, but she never moved any them out of the flat.

She couldn't bring herself to do it.

In the end the flat would always be Sherlock's. She could never imagine anyone else in it.

Every week she still had to remind herself not to buy him food, not to go up and make sure he was alright and tidy up for him.

She missed him like crazy.

She had never believed he was a fraud, and she never would.

She could never ever lose faith in Sherlock Holmes.

She would stare at the grave, like John, and occasionally laugh at random memories. Every time she left with tears in her eyes.

She put flowers on the grave. She knew that although he didn't want them, he would appreciate them, because they came from her.

She tidied up around his grave too sometimes, plucking the weeds, throwing flowers away and polishing his grave stone.

Sherlock Holmes was one of a kind, and she would love him til the very end.

.

.

.

Lestrade visited as well.

His visits weren't quite as frequent.

He couldn't describe the feelings that overcame him when he stared at the grave.

Anger? Sadness? Depression? Betrayal? Guilt?

It made him angry.

To think that Sherlock had been pretending all these years.

That he had planned all of these cases, only to have something to do.

Why?

This was a question Lestrade asked himself every time he visited.

Why would Sherlock do something like that? Why would he invent James Moriarty?

He remembered the poor old woman that had died. And all the other people that had died because she blew up.

Sherlock may have been cold, but he would never do something like that. He would never kill people for fun, just so that he wouldn't be bored anymore. Would he?

Sherlock wasn't as uncaring.

Sherlock had a heart, a real proper human heart.

He had to.

But then, why would he fake his own genius?

Unless it had all been a lie.

But then, how could anyone come up with something like that?

Lestrade hated the struggle of deciding what was right. As a policeman, he had been trained to rely on proof, on solid proof, and not on whims and instinct.

Those would get you nowhere.

But deep down, Sherlock was a good man. He had always been, now that Lestrade thought about it. So why would he do this?

There was only one other explanation.

It was all a lie.

Lestrade thought of all the times that Sherlock had let him glimpse some of his feelings, aspects of his personality that proved that he cared, and that he was human.

Lestrade knew that he couldn't be counted among Sherlock's friends. He barely knew the man.

But they had been more than mere acquaintances; they had trusted each other, respected each other and relied on each other.

And as hurt as Lestrade was by Sherlock's apparent betrayal, he couldn't help but feel sad at the fact that this man, this _brilliant_ man (because, if Lestrade was honest with himself, underneath it all, Sherlock _was_ a brilliant man, and a genius, whatever anyone else thought), was gone.

Dead.

Lestrade generally ended his visits with a cigarette and aspirin.

Sherlock was gone, and there was nothing that could be done.

But Lestrade had to admit that he missed him.

.

.

.

She visited only twice in the year.

Her black hair was tied up in a ponytail and twisted elegantly on the top of her head. She wore stylish but simple clothes, and always carried a small bunch of flowers.

She never stayed long, but set the flowers down, touching the grave stone and closing her eyes for a short silence before departing again.

She couldn't risk being seen here.

London wasn't safe for her, but she came anyway, just to visit his grave.

Irene Adler remembered her time with Sherlock Holmes.

She had known him well, as well as John and far better than Lestrade and Mycroft.

They had become lovers after he saved her in Karachi, and although they had never gotten to see each other often, she had cared for him.

Very deeply.

He had sent one last final goodbye to her, just before he had jumped.

_Thank you for dinner. _

_Yours_

_SH_

She had known what the text meant the second she had read it.

The media confirmed it.

She had gone to London immediately, counting on disguise and her fake papers to protect her.

She had observed John from a distance, and knew that he believed that Sherlock was dead. She had never seen a man look so heartbroken.

London seemed duller now. Every time she would see a tall man in a black coat walk by, she had to stop herself from turning around and calling out. She knew it couldn't be him.

She hadn't been able to cry at first. The shock was too much.

She simply hadn't been able to accept the idea of him being dead.

The tears came much later, when she was back in the house he had brought for her, on the other side of the world, safe.

She thought she must have been dreaming when he turned up at her doorstep.

Thin, ragged, tired and empty.

Broken.

He told her what had happened, and how he had faked his own death. Why he had to do it. And that nobody could know.

She had never been so relieved.

He had stayed with her for months after that.

Even so, she still visited his grave.

Sometimes she left a single red rose.

It annoyed him, she knew. Roses were so sentimental, and they represented romance and love.

But then, that was very close to the relationship the two of them shared.

He stopped being annoyed after a while.

She knew that people wondered about the person that would be leaving Sherlock Holmes roses, but she knew she was safe.

And right now, so was Sherlock.

.

.

.

Molly came by sometimes.

She missed Sherlock.

He had hurt her before, insulted her and mocked her.

But she knew that he valued her. As a friend.

She couldn't really explain her infatuation with Sherlock Holmes.

He had just come in one day, incredibly handsome in his long coat and curly black hair.

He had just been so different from other people, and no one could compete with him.

Molly had fallen head over heels for him, even though he mostly ignored her.

She knew that she should move on, and look for other guys who she could spend a life with and be happy with.

But she never managed.

In the end though, he had come to _her_. She was so insignificant, and yet it was her who the great Sherlock Holmes went to for help.

She had never seen him so vulnerable.

Scared, and tired and just broken.

She had never believed any of the things the newspapers said about him, she would never lose faith in him.

She remembered his bitter acceptance.

He had known he was going to die.

He hadn't wanted to, Molly was sure of that. The only reason he would ever kill himself was because someone he cared about was in danger. Because he wanted to save them.

Because, in the end, that was the kind of man that Sherlock Holmes was.

He put other people before himself, and he was so ready to do absolutely anything for the people he cared about.

Molly still loved him, but she no longer had a romantic interest in him.

At the end, their friendship had suddenly gotten so strong.

And then, suddenly it was all over.

She shed tears sometimes, seeing his grave, knowing she would never ever see him again, hear him explain something a hundred miles per minute, or see him arch an eyebrow at someone's obliviousness.

She missed him a lot, and told him so.

The grave didn't do him justice.

It was simple and nondescript, and looked exactly like all the other ones in the graveyard.

But Sherlock had been nothing like anybody else.

She wished he could come back.

.

.

.

Mycroft only visited once.

He didn't end up attending the funeral. Mrs Hudson and John arranged it.

Mycroft didn't think he had a right to anymore.

All this was his fault.

He came at night, using the darkness as protection. He didn't want to be seen.

He stood in front of the grave expressionlessly and silently.

He knew Sherlock wasn't dead, but that didn't take away the feeling of total guilt building up inside him.

He had never really wanted a brother, and he had never liked Sherlock much in his childhood. Both of his parents had cared about their children, but they had never been the types to show comfort affection. They preferred to love from far away, leaving the responsibility of looking after Sherlock to Mycroft, after Sherlock had insulted all the various nannies and tutors.

All of Mycroft's time had been spent looking after Sherlock and getting him out of trouble. Sherlock had hated all the restrictions placed on him, and had rebelled, making the relationship between him and Mycroft very tense. Sherlock knew that Mycroft still saw him as an incompetent child, and it angered him.

Eventually he had gone to Mycroft for help, after his 'death', but they had still parted on cold terms. Mycroft knew his mistake, but didn't have the guts to apologise to his brother.

And now he was standing in front of his grave, and he still couldn't get the words out.

_Pathetic_.

He stared at the stone and at the flowers that surrounded it. He was almost surprised that so many people cared.

He knew that Sherlock hated having flowers on his grave, but he knew that he would be touched.

Fleetingly, Mycroft wondered how many people would actually leave flowers at his grave because they cared.

Probably no one.

'Caring was a disadvantage' he told himself again firmly, feeling tiny raindrops drop on his clothes. His umbrella was beside him, but he didn't open it.

He stared at the grave for a while longer, simply thinking.

Remembering his and Sherlock's childhood.

Would their relationship have turned out better, under different circumstances?

He shook his head. It did no good to dwell in the past. What was done was done. He couldn't reverse his actions.

He closed his eyes for a while, trying to stop the sudden on coming headache.

He sighed and opened his umbrella. It was no use, he was already wet and chilled to the bone.

He turned to leave, but something made him stop.

He couldn't apologise to his brother. Not now, he was too much of a coward. Sherlock had a right to hate him for it.

But his brother was alive. He couldn't hear him now.

He looked down at the grave, guilt washing over him again.

"I'm sorry Sherlock" he whispered quietly and left the graveyard.

.

.

.

Sally didn't visit.

At least, not intentionally.

She was walking through the graveyard, wanting to visit her dead grandmother, who was buried along the small forest lane, among the pine trees.

As she walked along the path, a simple black grave stone with gold letters caught her eye.

_Sherlock Holmes_.

She froze and stared at the grave. Obviously, she wasn't surprised about his death, she had heard about it almost immediately after and had read it in all the papers.

She couldn't say that she felt guilty about his death.

He had been a horrible person, a complete psychopath, just as she had always said. He killed completely innocent people just so that he would be entertained.

What kind of sick person did that?

She had been right all along.

Sherlock Holmes was a freak, a monster.

She was almost glad he was dead.

A tiny part of her felt different though. She wouldn't call it sadness or guilt, it was nothing close to that.

But she felt bad, just a little bit, because she was one of the people who drove him to suicide.

She (however indirectly) had made him take his own life.

She had killed a person.

She shook her head.

No. She couldn't think of it that way. After all, sooner or later, the press would have been bound to discover that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. She had only helped the situation along.

She might have made Sherlock Holmes commit suicide, but how many other innocent lives had she saved in the process?

That thought made her feel a lot better. She looked at his gravestone again. There were some flowers, but they were old and withered.

'Freak' she thought to herself. 'I was right'.

She closed her eyes slightly. 'But I wish I hadn't been' she thought silently.

She took one last look at the grave and walked down the path, towards her grandmother.

**Thank you very much for reading and please review!**

**Laura xxx**


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